Fanfic : Consult
Mar. 7th, 2014 01:44 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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our_bbcsherlockTitle: Consult
Fandom: Sherlock, Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Greg Lestrade, PC Peter Grant, PC Lesley May, Mama Thames, Mycroft Holmes (mentioned), DCI Thomas Nightingale (mentioned), Lady Ty (mentioned), Philip Anderson (mentioned), Mary Morstan (mentioned)
Word Count: 4900 ish
Rating: PG
A/N: None of these characters are mine (except the officer on the door), and I hope the owners will not begrudge my borrowing of them. I love Sherlock (both ACD, BBC and many incarnations in between) and I love Ben Aaronovitch's Rivers of London books (if you haven't read them, do it NOW) so, it seemed only fair to bring the two together.
And bonus points for spotting the reference to Alexander McCall Smith's No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency.
About the jumper, it's not romance or pre-slash. I wanted Sherlock to feel warm and surrounded by friendship and comfort as he recovers not only from injury and pro-longed absence. The jumpers are so quintessentially John that I figured, in Sherlock's mind, they would denote that comfort and caring he craves. So Sherlock asks for one of John's old jumpers.
Warnings: non-graphic mention of suicide, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, crime scene
Summary: “It was a pleasant Sunday morning in early November. Little did I know, as the autumn sunlight shone through the window of 221B Baker Street, that by that evening my entire World view and everything I thought I understood would have changed.”
John and a recovering Sherlock are called to an unusual crime scene. What they discover results in stress for Lestrade and a consultation with the officers of The Folly.
It was a pleasant Sunday morning in early November. Little did I know, as the autumn sunlight shone through the window of 221B Baker Street, that by that evening my entire World view and everything I thought I understood would have changed.
I was sat in my armchair by the fire reading the Sunday Telegraph. A slowly cooling cup of earl grey tea sat on the side table to my right. In the kitchen behind me I could hear Sherlock moving slides onto and off of his microscope and occasionally humming or muttering to himself. As was normal for a Sunday morning, he wore his pyjama bottoms, blue dressing gown and one of my old jumpers.
The jumper was a new addition to his wardrobe. The first time he had been able to spend some time sitting up on the sofa after weeks of bed rest and recuperation he had complained of cold. I had suggested a blanket but he had insisted that would be too heavy.
“One of your jumpers, John. The old oatmeal one with the frayed cuff. The one you can’t quite bring yourself to throw out. That will do me well and it will stop you prevaricating.”
I was somewhat surprised as he’d never been anything but disparaging about my choice of knitwear, but I was not going to deny him something that could bring him comfort. Upon returning to his side with it, he had merely stretched up his now dressing gownless arms so I could slide the jumper over his head. As I pulled down the hem he let out a gentle huff of breath and, for the first time since his discharge from hospital, the stress in his face seemed to ease and a gentle smile touched his face. Since that day the jumper had become a fixture. Sherlock insisted it was the only thing that kept him warm, only allowing it to be washed if I swapped it for one of my other jumpers, but pulling it back on as soon as it was dry.
I know it seemed strange. Both Greg and Mycroft had separately queried this latest idiosyncrasy, Greg by a questioning nod of this head in Sherlock’s direction and Mycroft by a grimace and an arched eyebrow. In both cases I just gently shook my head, shrugged my shoulders and smiled. The silent communication with both men seemed to close the matter. After all, if it brought my flatmate some degree of comfort while he recovered from the bullet my wife had placed in his chest, I wasn’t going to quibble.
I was now living back at Baker Street. Despite Sherlock’s claim that Mary had not intended to cause him serious harm, I’m not an idiot. As an experienced ex-army trauma surgeon I recognised the wound and the damage it could cause. If you want solely to incapacitate but not seriously harm you do not shoot at the thorax and certainly not point blank. A close range, low velocity pistol shot, with silencer was nothing less than a kill shot. True it had been placed well so death was not instantaneous, but I’m not so dumb as to not realise that Mary had shot to dispose of my best friend whilst buying herself time to escape while I fought to keep Sherlock alive. We were incredibly lucky that the bullet did not fragment or ricochet off of a rib or I would have lost him on the floor of Magnussen’s office.
So now I was back in my old room, ostensibly caring for the recuperating detective, while my unapologetic wife stayed away and cared for our unborn child. How to deal with Mary was a discussion for another day, and I was well aware that Sherlock was cooking up some plan with Mycroft to protect me (as usual). That Mycroft had not taken his revenge was, I felt sure, only at Sherlock’s insistence and to protect my child.
My musings were interrupted by a text on Sherlock’s phone. I set down my paper and turned my head towards the kitchen as Sherlock read the message.
“Case John. Possible double murder in Southwark. Be ready in ten minutes.” And with that he disappeared into his bedroom to prepare. I folded my paper, drained my cup of now cold tea, placing the empty cup and saucer in the sink, and made my way to my own room. A quick check of the small bag I now carried with me at all times showed it fully stocked with appropriate dressings, wipes and medications for maintaining Sherlock’s health. Despite being discharged from hospital he was still on a strict healthcare regimen and it was my job to ensure he did not deviate, despite his best efforts.
Grabbing my wallet and keys, I grabbed my Browning, checking it was loaded and the safety on before tucking it into my waistband holster. Since the incident with Mary, Mycroft had provided me with a special licence and the proper equipment to carry and maintain my concealed weapon. As he had pointed out with his usual sarcastic grimace when he presented them to me “John, I can only cope with one shot arse in Baker Street.”
A quick stop in the kitchen added a bottle of water and a pack of ginger oat cakes to my bag. Oat cakes were not Sherlock’s favourite, but would do at a pinch to maintain blood sugar levels if the detective found himself flagging.
I was just slipping on my jacket and shoes when he emerged from his room looking his usual elegant self, although his shirts did not strain as much as they used to – a result of the weight loss caused by his injury.
As normal, he worked his special brand of magic, emerging out of the door of 221B and raising his hand as a cab almost instantly pulled up to the curb. As I climbed in Sherlock spoke to the cabby through the open front window giving an address in Southwark, before he too climbed into the back seat and closed the door behind him.
Settling himself comfortably he spotted my bag on the seat between us. He regarded it with disdain before ignoring its presence completely. He hated that bag. It was a sign of his dependence and perceived weakness. I too looked forward to the day when it was no longer necessary. Much as I liked caring for my best friend, I knew that it did his independent soul no favours to be burdened with the knowledge that he was still reliant upon another to maintain his health. The day I no longer needed to carry that bag would be a happy day indeed, for both of us.
I looked out of the window, watching impassively the vibrancy and history of London rolling past as we moved down ancient streets bustling with modern life. “So Sherlock, what do we know?”
“Lestrade didn’t say much. Two bodies, both stabbed in the chest. One weapon still in situ in one of the victims. But he says something is off, he just won’t say what. Insufferable. Says I have to see it to believe it, but insists it’s at least a nine.”
“Is Anderson back on forensics? I heard from Greg that he’d been reinstated.”
“Hopefully.” I turned my head in shock towards my flatmate.
“What? Despite his recent … flakiness, I have seen some of his more recent work and it is much improved. He has obviously taken the time away from the Met to improve his skills and I know for a fact that he has been a regular visitor to my website.”
“Oh, and when did you have a chance to see his work?”
“I may have visited him, at home, to dissuade him from some of his groups more outlandish theories about … everything.” Sherlock looked sheepish, which meant that his jaw tightened and his chin lifted defiantly, daring anyone to question his statement. Yep, definitely sheepish.
I smiled gently and turned my gaze back to the cityscape outside the window. We were just beginning to cross Waterloo Bridge, our gateway to Southwark. As we crossed on to the bridge I noticed a large lady on the far pavement. She drew my attention because, unlike everyone else, she was standing next to the curb, her eyes fixed on our cab. She was tall and ‘traditionally’ built as can be the way of some ladies of African ancestry. Her clothes were bright, but obviously well cut and expensive and her hair and makeup expertly styled. Jewellery was gold but not ostentatious. The strangest thing was her stillness. She was still in a way I have never seen. Despite the bluster of a sunny autumn day the wind did not seem to touch her and the crowds on the bridge avoided her effortlessly whilst not seeming to register she was there at all. Her expression was blank but knowing, not vacant. The only movement was the turn of her head as her sparkling eyes followed the slow progression of our cab in the morning traffic.
A strange odour permeated the cab. It smelled of the Thames. The same combination of ozone, brine, drain water and earthiness suffused with the essence of London that differentiated the Thames from all other rivers. I shouldn’t have been surprised to smell it now, except that I had only ever noticed the scent when I was close to the river bank, or in it as had been the case more times than I chose to remember. And as soon as it was there, the scent vanished.
I had noticed that Sherlock had tensed slightly as I detected the odour. A gentle “Oh” escaped his lips as the tension in his body decreased, but the tightness around his eyes showed his brain was now processing at full power.
I gently nudged my travel companion to break him out of his reverie some ten minutes later as the cab pulled up to the curb outside a block of Peabody Trust flats.
After paying the cabby, the two of us walked towards the main doors of the flats, now marked by crime scene tape and a police officer.
“Go on up sir. The DI is expecting you.” Said the officer as he lifted the tape for our convenience. It made a pleasant change from the snark and sneers we used to get. Since the review of Sherlock’s involvement in Met cases had completely exonerated him, his brilliance had become widely recognised, especially by the rank and file. Greg had told me that copies of some of the cold case files were becoming essential reading to young officers who wanted to improve their skills. It gave me a warm glow of pride that the Met were beginning to truly appreciate the genius of the man I had the privilege to call friend.
Four flights of stairs took us up two floors to a short corridor. At the end was the door to the last flat. The cluster of forensic officers and the blue suited DI showed the location of the crime scene.
“Glad you could join us. This is a weird one. Suit up and come on in and I’ll talk you through it.” There was something in the tightness in Greg’s face that showed just how off this scene was. Something was worrying him badly.
Sherlock, of course, refused the blue onesie so beloved of crime scene officers. I pulled mine on with practised ease and slipped on the shoe covers. At least Sherlock conceded to wear those if only to protect the integrity of the scene.
“The flat is let to a Gary Bates. He’s recently returned to London from points north. He has form for low level crimes, but nothing serious, or at least that would stick. Left London in the eighties and continued his life of crime in Manchester, Leeds, Liverpool and most recently Newcastle. Basically he’s a low level thug and enforcer, just canny enough to not get caught. As to the other victim … well, you’ll see.”
As we walked in to the small living room, it was apparent that something bizarre had happened. All the furniture was pushed back against the walls, giving a clear view of the door to the kitchen and the windows looking out over rooftops to the river and the north side of the Thames beyond.
As my eyes were drawn to the view of the sun glinting off the tiny patch of river visible between the buildings lining its banks I again became aware of the scent of the Thames. A fleeting waft that vanished as soon as it came.
Sherlock, who was bent over the two bodies displayed on the cleared floor of the flat, again tensed as he too must have noticed the scent.
I turned away from the window. “Sherlock, did you just … ?”
“Yes, yes I did. This changes everything.” Sherlock stood, straightened his scarf and turned to the DI. “Lestrade, I need a consult.”
The room stopped. The shock was palpable. I had known Sherlock to speak to experts in order to solve crimes, Raz was a prime example, but I had never seen him do it at a crime scene in front of others. It was alright to admit a gap in his knowledge to me, but in front of the Met, never.
Shaking himself slightly and closing his slackened jaw, Greg pulled himself together. “OK Sherlock. Who do you need?”
“I need The Folly here, now.”
If Sherlock asking for a consultant was shocking, this shook Lestrade to his core. Fear flashed in his eyes and a tremulous “Oh shit!” escaped his lips, before he turned and hurriedly left the room, tapping furiously at his phone.
I turned to my friend and raised an enquiring eyebrow. I had never heard of The Folly but the look of fear on Lestrade’s face made me wonder what we had strayed into. Unfortunately, Sherlock had obviously decided not to clarify his request.
“It will be some time before they get here. Let’s do what we can before they arrive.” And with that he turned back to the bodies on the floor.
Still unclear about what was happening, I joined Sherlock on the floor.
The first body was of a well nourished, Caucasian, clean shaven male in his late fifties to early sixties. His short cropped hair was grey and receding. His build and muscle tone told of a life of manual labour, but the callouses and scarring on his knuckles indicated he was not averse to fighting. His nose had been broken multiple times and badly reset on occasion, but the damage was insufficient for him to have been a boxer, so more likely a bouncer or hired muscle. His build would certainly have intimidated all but the most foolhardy or confident opponents.
His hands were clean except for traces of sediment under his short nails, however none was visible in the course skin of his fingers. He wore well worn black leather shoes, resoled and re-heeled many times. Cheap black socks probably from a market stall. His black suit was of moderate quality and well worn, but not old. It showed all the sign of having been made to measure by a skilled but inexpensive tailor. His white shirt had the label cut out, but enough was still visible for the M&S label to be discerned. So, bought off of a market stall. On his left wrist a chunky gold Pulsar watch and on his right an even chunkier gold curb link bracelet. He had no other jewellery, not even the rings that were usually so popular with this type of man.
“They would have interfered with the knuckle duster and could have been difficult to get off in case of swelling.” Sherlock had seen the way my mind was working and had answered my question before I could give it voice.
There were no obvious signs of recent violence upon the body apart from the large and rather old fashioned bone handled switch blade that was protruding from his ribs. The blood on his right hand and the cut on his palm showed the wound was almost certainly self-inflicted.
“Knife wound to the heart. Single strike, probably self-administered. Death would have been almost instantaneous. No other visible signs of trauma or coercion. No obvious signs of ill health. Death occurred about twelve hours ago judging by lividity and rigour. No sign of the body having been moved or tampered with. So probably suicide about ten o’clock last night.”
“Your analysis is correct given the facts presented. Well done. Now the other body.”
I turned away from the detective, happy that I had done well. The other body was more of a conundrum.
This was of a much younger man, perhaps in his early to mid-twenties. His hair was long and cut in an old style. There was evidence of considerable amounts of hair product. His right ear was pieced with a small gold stud and a gold hoop pieced the top of his ear. He was wearing brown loafers, white socks, shiny grey trousers with turn ups, a leather belt, white shirt and a light grey jacket with padded shoulders and turned up sleeves. Apart from the earrings there was no jewellery. In the centre of his chest was a stab wound that had bled profusely, the blood still discolouring his shirt front.
“Well John?”
“Yes, well.” I took a deep breath and started. “Well, Caucasian male in his mid-twenties. I’m not even going to attempt a time of death. Clothes, all original by the look of it, and hairstyle say mid eighties, but the level of decomp is wrong. He has obviously been dead a while, but normal decomposition is almost non-existent. Guessing by the clothing he was a big fan of Miami Vice or at least following that fashion trend so, either he's been to some retro party or he's time travelled from around 1985. Cause of death was almost certainly the stab wound to his chest although it took a few minutes for the victim to bleed out. It’s difficult to see if there are any other injuries, but I suspect the post mortem will reveal signs of a struggle.” I turned to look at Sherlock.
“I agree. Which raises the questions, where has his body been stored and why is it here, now? Obviously it has been stored and very carefully too. There are no signs of insect infestation or predation, very little putrifaction and decomp is minimal. Also no signs of any normal embalming or body preservation processes and yet the body is not mummified. It is almost as if the body has somehow been in some sort of suspended animation. So, how are these bodies linked and why now? Possibly his recent return to London was a factor.”
Sherlock stood and moved to the older victim. “Hmm, it is clear that he had taken tea with someone before he died. There are biscuit crumbs on his collar and in the corner of his mouth, and there is a tea stain on the front of his shirt, as though he had dribbled. It could suggest that he was drugged and brought here whilst unconscious, but that doesn’t fit the evidence.”
As Sherlock’s eyes flicked back and forth over the corpse, a disturbance by the door of the flat heralded the return of Lestrade and presumably the arrival of the Consultants from The Folly.
A tall young man with pale brown skin walked into the room, looking uncomfortable in his blue crime scene suit. Behind him came a young woman, shorter in stature with a plastic mask across her face, covering some form of injury.
Greg made the introductions “Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, this is PC Peter Grant and PC Lesley May from The Folly.”
Handshakes were frowned upon at crime scenes due to the possible cross contamination, so head nods sufficed as acknowledgement of introductions completed. Sherlock had not looked up from his scrutiny of the victim but unusually he acknowledged the newcomers. “My compliments to DCI Nightingale. Now can we get on?”
PC Grant moved forward to crouch beside the body whilst PC May moved around the flat looking at the layout and ornaments.
Suddenly PC Grant sniffed. Sherlock smirked. “Ahh, you smell it too. Can you feel anything else?”
At that moment PC May called over from the window, her voice strangely slurred. “Peter, I can see the river.” I was aware that something significant had been communicated in that brief statement other than just an enjoyment of the view.
Sherlock pointed out the crumbs and tea stain. “I believe he rather foolishly accepted someone’s hospitality.” Something in the tone and weight of the comment made me look at him sharply. Sherlock was conveying information to this young police officer that he did not want others in the room to know, yet the comment itself was so innocuous. I could not imagine how his having eaten tea and biscuits with someone before his death could have contributed to his apparent suicide.
“Should I get Forensics in to take samples?” I asked.
“Perhaps, later. But they will simply find they are shortcake and English Breakfast blend. Although I suspect leaf tea from Fortnum and Mason rather than your standard PG Tips.”
Peter Grant leant forward and moved a gloved hand a few millimetres above the body. “Yes, it’s here. “
Sherlock looked up sharply and exchanged a look with the PC. A decision was reached between the two men. “Murder suicide then.”
“Yes. No need for a wider investigation, if you could let the interested parties know. I’ll give Lestrade the details here if The Folly can deal with anything in the unlikely event that a concern crops up later. Thank you both for your assistance. DCI Nightingale knows where to find me, should the need arise.”
PCs Grant and May stood, made their goodbyes and left the scene much to Lestrade’s relief.
“So?” His question was obviously weighted with more than the normal subtext.
Sherlock stood “Yes, so. No need for further investigation. Odd, but a murder suicide none the less. I’m sure the Met will deal with this quietly and efficiently to cause minimal disruption. Our suicide, Gary Bates, murdered the young man in the mid-eighties and, for some unknown reason, stored the body before leaving London. Yesterday the body was taken out of storage, brought here and all the furniture was moved to give sufficient room. The body was laid out, our suicide went out to tea to no doubt bring closure to the family, then came back, took the original murder weapon and, as a final act of remorse or contrition, killed himself. Unless he left a note you will probably never find out why now, and it would be difficult to trace the family to find out what was discussed.” Sherlock imbued that sentence with meaning and looked pointedly at Lestrade, who seemed to understand and nodded his assent. “I’m sure all trace evidence will point to no other persons being involved. So, case closed. Come along John. I fancy a cup of tea.”
The taxi ride back was strange. I wanted to ask about The Folly and what had happened at the crime scene, but Sherlock merely said “later”. Half way across Waterloo Bridge Sherlock suddenly asked the cabby to stop. Pulling up to the curb the same lady from earlier stepped forward. Sherlock immediately leant forward and reverently kissed the back of her hand.
“My compliments Mama Thames. Everything is as it should be and all is well. The Folly will ensure nothing takes a wrong turn.”
The lady smiled. “My thanks Mr Holmes. I brought Michael into my family and he was taken from me. The debt had to be paid. Now it is done.” The lady then leant forward and, taking my friends face in her hands, she bent his head forward to kiss his forehead. “A blessing, child of London.”
“Thank you Mama Thames. You know where I am if you or yours need me.”
A warm smile acknowledged his charming offer. “Go child.”
And with that Sherlock climbed back into the cab and resumed our journey to Baker Street.
That evening we sat in our respective chairs drinking tea. Sherlock had been tired on our return and had taken a nap on the sofa. Later I’d checked his wounds, which were healing well, and ordered a Thai take away. After the meal Sherlock had played the violin for a while as he processed the day’s events, and I checked my email for new cases.
As we sat with the warm glow of the fire and the sweet scent of tea, Sherlock looked at me. “You have questions?”
“Yes. The Folly, of course, and Mama Thames.”
“Hmm, well they are linked. And you may not believe what I tell you, but what I do say you can never share with another soul.”
I looked at him incredulously. “Sherlock, when have I ever not believed you, at least once I’ve got past the impossible?”
Sherlock pondered my statement then, with a wave of his hand, smiled and settled himself into his chair. “Very well. Mama Thames is the Goddess of the tidal River Thames and therefore London. The Folly is an ancient division of what is now The Metropolitan Police with specific responsibility for policing magic. They have a working arrangement with Mama Thames and her family, who are the Rivers of London. I needed to consult with The Folly on this because of the connection to Mama Thames.”
“Oooookayyy. So when you say magic you don’t mean Paul Daniels magic, you mean …?”
“Real magic. Yes.” Sherlock’s eyes were sparkling and his fingers were steepled over his lips as he watched me process what he was saying.
“And when you say Goddess …? “
“Yes.”
“Ooooookayyyy. And I assume Mycroft knows.”
“Of course.”
I thought I was coping really well given that my world view had just been turned on its head. That Sherlock and Mycroft accepted this as reality made my own acceptance a foregone conclusion. A deep breath steadied my racing thoughts before I continued with my questions.
“So, about this case?”
“The victim was one of Mama Thames’ chosen. Her daughters are all the rivers of London and are therefore magical. In fact, if you ever run into Cecilia Tyburn Thames aka Lady Ty be incredibly respectful because she is formidable, even causing Mycroft to be on his best behaviour. And whilst we have been indoctrinated to think magic is fun, it is in fact deadly serious. When you visit the home of a source of magic, whilst you may enter if invited, never accept food or drink as this gives power and control over you, unless a disclaimer is given.”
I sat back and thought for a moment, reviewing all I had seen and heard today. Sherlock gave me the time and just watched with amusement as I struggled to assimilate what I had learned.
Finally I placed my hands on the arms of the chair and smiled.
“So, our suicide, Gary Bates, killed Mama Thames’ boy in the eighties. I presume Mama Thames stored the body and awaited the time for justice. I assume justice had to wait until Gary returned to London.” Sherlock smiled and nodded. “When the time was right she invited the murderer for tea and biscuits which he foolishly accepted giving her power over him. He then went back to his flat, which had been staged, and under the suggestion of Mama Thames, killed himself.”
Sherlock clapped his hands with glee “Well deduced.”
I basked in the complement for a moment and sipped my tea.
“So, how did you know Mama Thames was involved?”
“Ahh, yes. You recall the scent of river in the cab and then again at the scene.”
“Yes.” I obviously looked confused.
“I believe The Folly call it vestigium. You see, use of magic leaves traces, sometimes a feeling and sometimes a scent. Those who are magically sensitive can detect this. When I smelt the River whilst we were in the cab I knew one of the Rivers was involved, especially as Mama Thames was standing on the bridge as we began to cross. Therefore a consult with The Folly was the only thing to do, for damage limitation if nothing else. “
“Ahh. I understand. And, the fact that you are sensitive to vestigium?”
Sherlock smirked. “Good lord no. Neither Mycroft nor I possess any skills in that area. However that does not prevent the knowledge of it. As you can imagine a certain cultivated sensitivity is useful for The Work. I understand the basics of that world, enough to stay out of trouble and to call on help when I need it.”
“And the blessing?”
“Yes, Mama Thames is a great lady. She understands what I, no, what we do for London and she appreciates our help. A blessing from Mama Thames is a huge honour and I do not take it lightly."
“So, case closed. I take it I won’t be blogging about this.”
“No. Probably for the best.”
“Tea?”
“Please.”
Thank you for reading. I hope you found my ramblings entertaining. Comments, etc are hugely appreciated.
I can be found on tumblr, archive of our own, and fanfiction if the meed takes you.
Fandom: Sherlock, Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Greg Lestrade, PC Peter Grant, PC Lesley May, Mama Thames, Mycroft Holmes (mentioned), DCI Thomas Nightingale (mentioned), Lady Ty (mentioned), Philip Anderson (mentioned), Mary Morstan (mentioned)
Word Count: 4900 ish
Rating: PG
A/N: None of these characters are mine (except the officer on the door), and I hope the owners will not begrudge my borrowing of them. I love Sherlock (both ACD, BBC and many incarnations in between) and I love Ben Aaronovitch's Rivers of London books (if you haven't read them, do it NOW) so, it seemed only fair to bring the two together.
And bonus points for spotting the reference to Alexander McCall Smith's No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency.
About the jumper, it's not romance or pre-slash. I wanted Sherlock to feel warm and surrounded by friendship and comfort as he recovers not only from injury and pro-longed absence. The jumpers are so quintessentially John that I figured, in Sherlock's mind, they would denote that comfort and caring he craves. So Sherlock asks for one of John's old jumpers.
Warnings: non-graphic mention of suicide, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, crime scene
Summary: “It was a pleasant Sunday morning in early November. Little did I know, as the autumn sunlight shone through the window of 221B Baker Street, that by that evening my entire World view and everything I thought I understood would have changed.”
John and a recovering Sherlock are called to an unusual crime scene. What they discover results in stress for Lestrade and a consultation with the officers of The Folly.
It was a pleasant Sunday morning in early November. Little did I know, as the autumn sunlight shone through the window of 221B Baker Street, that by that evening my entire World view and everything I thought I understood would have changed.
I was sat in my armchair by the fire reading the Sunday Telegraph. A slowly cooling cup of earl grey tea sat on the side table to my right. In the kitchen behind me I could hear Sherlock moving slides onto and off of his microscope and occasionally humming or muttering to himself. As was normal for a Sunday morning, he wore his pyjama bottoms, blue dressing gown and one of my old jumpers.
The jumper was a new addition to his wardrobe. The first time he had been able to spend some time sitting up on the sofa after weeks of bed rest and recuperation he had complained of cold. I had suggested a blanket but he had insisted that would be too heavy.
“One of your jumpers, John. The old oatmeal one with the frayed cuff. The one you can’t quite bring yourself to throw out. That will do me well and it will stop you prevaricating.”
I was somewhat surprised as he’d never been anything but disparaging about my choice of knitwear, but I was not going to deny him something that could bring him comfort. Upon returning to his side with it, he had merely stretched up his now dressing gownless arms so I could slide the jumper over his head. As I pulled down the hem he let out a gentle huff of breath and, for the first time since his discharge from hospital, the stress in his face seemed to ease and a gentle smile touched his face. Since that day the jumper had become a fixture. Sherlock insisted it was the only thing that kept him warm, only allowing it to be washed if I swapped it for one of my other jumpers, but pulling it back on as soon as it was dry.
I know it seemed strange. Both Greg and Mycroft had separately queried this latest idiosyncrasy, Greg by a questioning nod of this head in Sherlock’s direction and Mycroft by a grimace and an arched eyebrow. In both cases I just gently shook my head, shrugged my shoulders and smiled. The silent communication with both men seemed to close the matter. After all, if it brought my flatmate some degree of comfort while he recovered from the bullet my wife had placed in his chest, I wasn’t going to quibble.
I was now living back at Baker Street. Despite Sherlock’s claim that Mary had not intended to cause him serious harm, I’m not an idiot. As an experienced ex-army trauma surgeon I recognised the wound and the damage it could cause. If you want solely to incapacitate but not seriously harm you do not shoot at the thorax and certainly not point blank. A close range, low velocity pistol shot, with silencer was nothing less than a kill shot. True it had been placed well so death was not instantaneous, but I’m not so dumb as to not realise that Mary had shot to dispose of my best friend whilst buying herself time to escape while I fought to keep Sherlock alive. We were incredibly lucky that the bullet did not fragment or ricochet off of a rib or I would have lost him on the floor of Magnussen’s office.
So now I was back in my old room, ostensibly caring for the recuperating detective, while my unapologetic wife stayed away and cared for our unborn child. How to deal with Mary was a discussion for another day, and I was well aware that Sherlock was cooking up some plan with Mycroft to protect me (as usual). That Mycroft had not taken his revenge was, I felt sure, only at Sherlock’s insistence and to protect my child.
My musings were interrupted by a text on Sherlock’s phone. I set down my paper and turned my head towards the kitchen as Sherlock read the message.
“Case John. Possible double murder in Southwark. Be ready in ten minutes.” And with that he disappeared into his bedroom to prepare. I folded my paper, drained my cup of now cold tea, placing the empty cup and saucer in the sink, and made my way to my own room. A quick check of the small bag I now carried with me at all times showed it fully stocked with appropriate dressings, wipes and medications for maintaining Sherlock’s health. Despite being discharged from hospital he was still on a strict healthcare regimen and it was my job to ensure he did not deviate, despite his best efforts.
Grabbing my wallet and keys, I grabbed my Browning, checking it was loaded and the safety on before tucking it into my waistband holster. Since the incident with Mary, Mycroft had provided me with a special licence and the proper equipment to carry and maintain my concealed weapon. As he had pointed out with his usual sarcastic grimace when he presented them to me “John, I can only cope with one shot arse in Baker Street.”
A quick stop in the kitchen added a bottle of water and a pack of ginger oat cakes to my bag. Oat cakes were not Sherlock’s favourite, but would do at a pinch to maintain blood sugar levels if the detective found himself flagging.
I was just slipping on my jacket and shoes when he emerged from his room looking his usual elegant self, although his shirts did not strain as much as they used to – a result of the weight loss caused by his injury.
As normal, he worked his special brand of magic, emerging out of the door of 221B and raising his hand as a cab almost instantly pulled up to the curb. As I climbed in Sherlock spoke to the cabby through the open front window giving an address in Southwark, before he too climbed into the back seat and closed the door behind him.
Settling himself comfortably he spotted my bag on the seat between us. He regarded it with disdain before ignoring its presence completely. He hated that bag. It was a sign of his dependence and perceived weakness. I too looked forward to the day when it was no longer necessary. Much as I liked caring for my best friend, I knew that it did his independent soul no favours to be burdened with the knowledge that he was still reliant upon another to maintain his health. The day I no longer needed to carry that bag would be a happy day indeed, for both of us.
I looked out of the window, watching impassively the vibrancy and history of London rolling past as we moved down ancient streets bustling with modern life. “So Sherlock, what do we know?”
“Lestrade didn’t say much. Two bodies, both stabbed in the chest. One weapon still in situ in one of the victims. But he says something is off, he just won’t say what. Insufferable. Says I have to see it to believe it, but insists it’s at least a nine.”
“Is Anderson back on forensics? I heard from Greg that he’d been reinstated.”
“Hopefully.” I turned my head in shock towards my flatmate.
“What? Despite his recent … flakiness, I have seen some of his more recent work and it is much improved. He has obviously taken the time away from the Met to improve his skills and I know for a fact that he has been a regular visitor to my website.”
“Oh, and when did you have a chance to see his work?”
“I may have visited him, at home, to dissuade him from some of his groups more outlandish theories about … everything.” Sherlock looked sheepish, which meant that his jaw tightened and his chin lifted defiantly, daring anyone to question his statement. Yep, definitely sheepish.
I smiled gently and turned my gaze back to the cityscape outside the window. We were just beginning to cross Waterloo Bridge, our gateway to Southwark. As we crossed on to the bridge I noticed a large lady on the far pavement. She drew my attention because, unlike everyone else, she was standing next to the curb, her eyes fixed on our cab. She was tall and ‘traditionally’ built as can be the way of some ladies of African ancestry. Her clothes were bright, but obviously well cut and expensive and her hair and makeup expertly styled. Jewellery was gold but not ostentatious. The strangest thing was her stillness. She was still in a way I have never seen. Despite the bluster of a sunny autumn day the wind did not seem to touch her and the crowds on the bridge avoided her effortlessly whilst not seeming to register she was there at all. Her expression was blank but knowing, not vacant. The only movement was the turn of her head as her sparkling eyes followed the slow progression of our cab in the morning traffic.
A strange odour permeated the cab. It smelled of the Thames. The same combination of ozone, brine, drain water and earthiness suffused with the essence of London that differentiated the Thames from all other rivers. I shouldn’t have been surprised to smell it now, except that I had only ever noticed the scent when I was close to the river bank, or in it as had been the case more times than I chose to remember. And as soon as it was there, the scent vanished.
I had noticed that Sherlock had tensed slightly as I detected the odour. A gentle “Oh” escaped his lips as the tension in his body decreased, but the tightness around his eyes showed his brain was now processing at full power.
I gently nudged my travel companion to break him out of his reverie some ten minutes later as the cab pulled up to the curb outside a block of Peabody Trust flats.
After paying the cabby, the two of us walked towards the main doors of the flats, now marked by crime scene tape and a police officer.
“Go on up sir. The DI is expecting you.” Said the officer as he lifted the tape for our convenience. It made a pleasant change from the snark and sneers we used to get. Since the review of Sherlock’s involvement in Met cases had completely exonerated him, his brilliance had become widely recognised, especially by the rank and file. Greg had told me that copies of some of the cold case files were becoming essential reading to young officers who wanted to improve their skills. It gave me a warm glow of pride that the Met were beginning to truly appreciate the genius of the man I had the privilege to call friend.
Four flights of stairs took us up two floors to a short corridor. At the end was the door to the last flat. The cluster of forensic officers and the blue suited DI showed the location of the crime scene.
“Glad you could join us. This is a weird one. Suit up and come on in and I’ll talk you through it.” There was something in the tightness in Greg’s face that showed just how off this scene was. Something was worrying him badly.
Sherlock, of course, refused the blue onesie so beloved of crime scene officers. I pulled mine on with practised ease and slipped on the shoe covers. At least Sherlock conceded to wear those if only to protect the integrity of the scene.
“The flat is let to a Gary Bates. He’s recently returned to London from points north. He has form for low level crimes, but nothing serious, or at least that would stick. Left London in the eighties and continued his life of crime in Manchester, Leeds, Liverpool and most recently Newcastle. Basically he’s a low level thug and enforcer, just canny enough to not get caught. As to the other victim … well, you’ll see.”
As we walked in to the small living room, it was apparent that something bizarre had happened. All the furniture was pushed back against the walls, giving a clear view of the door to the kitchen and the windows looking out over rooftops to the river and the north side of the Thames beyond.
As my eyes were drawn to the view of the sun glinting off the tiny patch of river visible between the buildings lining its banks I again became aware of the scent of the Thames. A fleeting waft that vanished as soon as it came.
Sherlock, who was bent over the two bodies displayed on the cleared floor of the flat, again tensed as he too must have noticed the scent.
I turned away from the window. “Sherlock, did you just … ?”
“Yes, yes I did. This changes everything.” Sherlock stood, straightened his scarf and turned to the DI. “Lestrade, I need a consult.”
The room stopped. The shock was palpable. I had known Sherlock to speak to experts in order to solve crimes, Raz was a prime example, but I had never seen him do it at a crime scene in front of others. It was alright to admit a gap in his knowledge to me, but in front of the Met, never.
Shaking himself slightly and closing his slackened jaw, Greg pulled himself together. “OK Sherlock. Who do you need?”
“I need The Folly here, now.”
If Sherlock asking for a consultant was shocking, this shook Lestrade to his core. Fear flashed in his eyes and a tremulous “Oh shit!” escaped his lips, before he turned and hurriedly left the room, tapping furiously at his phone.
I turned to my friend and raised an enquiring eyebrow. I had never heard of The Folly but the look of fear on Lestrade’s face made me wonder what we had strayed into. Unfortunately, Sherlock had obviously decided not to clarify his request.
“It will be some time before they get here. Let’s do what we can before they arrive.” And with that he turned back to the bodies on the floor.
Still unclear about what was happening, I joined Sherlock on the floor.
The first body was of a well nourished, Caucasian, clean shaven male in his late fifties to early sixties. His short cropped hair was grey and receding. His build and muscle tone told of a life of manual labour, but the callouses and scarring on his knuckles indicated he was not averse to fighting. His nose had been broken multiple times and badly reset on occasion, but the damage was insufficient for him to have been a boxer, so more likely a bouncer or hired muscle. His build would certainly have intimidated all but the most foolhardy or confident opponents.
His hands were clean except for traces of sediment under his short nails, however none was visible in the course skin of his fingers. He wore well worn black leather shoes, resoled and re-heeled many times. Cheap black socks probably from a market stall. His black suit was of moderate quality and well worn, but not old. It showed all the sign of having been made to measure by a skilled but inexpensive tailor. His white shirt had the label cut out, but enough was still visible for the M&S label to be discerned. So, bought off of a market stall. On his left wrist a chunky gold Pulsar watch and on his right an even chunkier gold curb link bracelet. He had no other jewellery, not even the rings that were usually so popular with this type of man.
“They would have interfered with the knuckle duster and could have been difficult to get off in case of swelling.” Sherlock had seen the way my mind was working and had answered my question before I could give it voice.
There were no obvious signs of recent violence upon the body apart from the large and rather old fashioned bone handled switch blade that was protruding from his ribs. The blood on his right hand and the cut on his palm showed the wound was almost certainly self-inflicted.
“Knife wound to the heart. Single strike, probably self-administered. Death would have been almost instantaneous. No other visible signs of trauma or coercion. No obvious signs of ill health. Death occurred about twelve hours ago judging by lividity and rigour. No sign of the body having been moved or tampered with. So probably suicide about ten o’clock last night.”
“Your analysis is correct given the facts presented. Well done. Now the other body.”
I turned away from the detective, happy that I had done well. The other body was more of a conundrum.
This was of a much younger man, perhaps in his early to mid-twenties. His hair was long and cut in an old style. There was evidence of considerable amounts of hair product. His right ear was pieced with a small gold stud and a gold hoop pieced the top of his ear. He was wearing brown loafers, white socks, shiny grey trousers with turn ups, a leather belt, white shirt and a light grey jacket with padded shoulders and turned up sleeves. Apart from the earrings there was no jewellery. In the centre of his chest was a stab wound that had bled profusely, the blood still discolouring his shirt front.
“Well John?”
“Yes, well.” I took a deep breath and started. “Well, Caucasian male in his mid-twenties. I’m not even going to attempt a time of death. Clothes, all original by the look of it, and hairstyle say mid eighties, but the level of decomp is wrong. He has obviously been dead a while, but normal decomposition is almost non-existent. Guessing by the clothing he was a big fan of Miami Vice or at least following that fashion trend so, either he's been to some retro party or he's time travelled from around 1985. Cause of death was almost certainly the stab wound to his chest although it took a few minutes for the victim to bleed out. It’s difficult to see if there are any other injuries, but I suspect the post mortem will reveal signs of a struggle.” I turned to look at Sherlock.
“I agree. Which raises the questions, where has his body been stored and why is it here, now? Obviously it has been stored and very carefully too. There are no signs of insect infestation or predation, very little putrifaction and decomp is minimal. Also no signs of any normal embalming or body preservation processes and yet the body is not mummified. It is almost as if the body has somehow been in some sort of suspended animation. So, how are these bodies linked and why now? Possibly his recent return to London was a factor.”
Sherlock stood and moved to the older victim. “Hmm, it is clear that he had taken tea with someone before he died. There are biscuit crumbs on his collar and in the corner of his mouth, and there is a tea stain on the front of his shirt, as though he had dribbled. It could suggest that he was drugged and brought here whilst unconscious, but that doesn’t fit the evidence.”
As Sherlock’s eyes flicked back and forth over the corpse, a disturbance by the door of the flat heralded the return of Lestrade and presumably the arrival of the Consultants from The Folly.
A tall young man with pale brown skin walked into the room, looking uncomfortable in his blue crime scene suit. Behind him came a young woman, shorter in stature with a plastic mask across her face, covering some form of injury.
Greg made the introductions “Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, this is PC Peter Grant and PC Lesley May from The Folly.”
Handshakes were frowned upon at crime scenes due to the possible cross contamination, so head nods sufficed as acknowledgement of introductions completed. Sherlock had not looked up from his scrutiny of the victim but unusually he acknowledged the newcomers. “My compliments to DCI Nightingale. Now can we get on?”
PC Grant moved forward to crouch beside the body whilst PC May moved around the flat looking at the layout and ornaments.
Suddenly PC Grant sniffed. Sherlock smirked. “Ahh, you smell it too. Can you feel anything else?”
At that moment PC May called over from the window, her voice strangely slurred. “Peter, I can see the river.” I was aware that something significant had been communicated in that brief statement other than just an enjoyment of the view.
Sherlock pointed out the crumbs and tea stain. “I believe he rather foolishly accepted someone’s hospitality.” Something in the tone and weight of the comment made me look at him sharply. Sherlock was conveying information to this young police officer that he did not want others in the room to know, yet the comment itself was so innocuous. I could not imagine how his having eaten tea and biscuits with someone before his death could have contributed to his apparent suicide.
“Should I get Forensics in to take samples?” I asked.
“Perhaps, later. But they will simply find they are shortcake and English Breakfast blend. Although I suspect leaf tea from Fortnum and Mason rather than your standard PG Tips.”
Peter Grant leant forward and moved a gloved hand a few millimetres above the body. “Yes, it’s here. “
Sherlock looked up sharply and exchanged a look with the PC. A decision was reached between the two men. “Murder suicide then.”
“Yes. No need for a wider investigation, if you could let the interested parties know. I’ll give Lestrade the details here if The Folly can deal with anything in the unlikely event that a concern crops up later. Thank you both for your assistance. DCI Nightingale knows where to find me, should the need arise.”
PCs Grant and May stood, made their goodbyes and left the scene much to Lestrade’s relief.
“So?” His question was obviously weighted with more than the normal subtext.
Sherlock stood “Yes, so. No need for further investigation. Odd, but a murder suicide none the less. I’m sure the Met will deal with this quietly and efficiently to cause minimal disruption. Our suicide, Gary Bates, murdered the young man in the mid-eighties and, for some unknown reason, stored the body before leaving London. Yesterday the body was taken out of storage, brought here and all the furniture was moved to give sufficient room. The body was laid out, our suicide went out to tea to no doubt bring closure to the family, then came back, took the original murder weapon and, as a final act of remorse or contrition, killed himself. Unless he left a note you will probably never find out why now, and it would be difficult to trace the family to find out what was discussed.” Sherlock imbued that sentence with meaning and looked pointedly at Lestrade, who seemed to understand and nodded his assent. “I’m sure all trace evidence will point to no other persons being involved. So, case closed. Come along John. I fancy a cup of tea.”
The taxi ride back was strange. I wanted to ask about The Folly and what had happened at the crime scene, but Sherlock merely said “later”. Half way across Waterloo Bridge Sherlock suddenly asked the cabby to stop. Pulling up to the curb the same lady from earlier stepped forward. Sherlock immediately leant forward and reverently kissed the back of her hand.
“My compliments Mama Thames. Everything is as it should be and all is well. The Folly will ensure nothing takes a wrong turn.”
The lady smiled. “My thanks Mr Holmes. I brought Michael into my family and he was taken from me. The debt had to be paid. Now it is done.” The lady then leant forward and, taking my friends face in her hands, she bent his head forward to kiss his forehead. “A blessing, child of London.”
“Thank you Mama Thames. You know where I am if you or yours need me.”
A warm smile acknowledged his charming offer. “Go child.”
And with that Sherlock climbed back into the cab and resumed our journey to Baker Street.
That evening we sat in our respective chairs drinking tea. Sherlock had been tired on our return and had taken a nap on the sofa. Later I’d checked his wounds, which were healing well, and ordered a Thai take away. After the meal Sherlock had played the violin for a while as he processed the day’s events, and I checked my email for new cases.
As we sat with the warm glow of the fire and the sweet scent of tea, Sherlock looked at me. “You have questions?”
“Yes. The Folly, of course, and Mama Thames.”
“Hmm, well they are linked. And you may not believe what I tell you, but what I do say you can never share with another soul.”
I looked at him incredulously. “Sherlock, when have I ever not believed you, at least once I’ve got past the impossible?”
Sherlock pondered my statement then, with a wave of his hand, smiled and settled himself into his chair. “Very well. Mama Thames is the Goddess of the tidal River Thames and therefore London. The Folly is an ancient division of what is now The Metropolitan Police with specific responsibility for policing magic. They have a working arrangement with Mama Thames and her family, who are the Rivers of London. I needed to consult with The Folly on this because of the connection to Mama Thames.”
“Oooookayyy. So when you say magic you don’t mean Paul Daniels magic, you mean …?”
“Real magic. Yes.” Sherlock’s eyes were sparkling and his fingers were steepled over his lips as he watched me process what he was saying.
“And when you say Goddess …? “
“Yes.”
“Ooooookayyyy. And I assume Mycroft knows.”
“Of course.”
I thought I was coping really well given that my world view had just been turned on its head. That Sherlock and Mycroft accepted this as reality made my own acceptance a foregone conclusion. A deep breath steadied my racing thoughts before I continued with my questions.
“So, about this case?”
“The victim was one of Mama Thames’ chosen. Her daughters are all the rivers of London and are therefore magical. In fact, if you ever run into Cecilia Tyburn Thames aka Lady Ty be incredibly respectful because she is formidable, even causing Mycroft to be on his best behaviour. And whilst we have been indoctrinated to think magic is fun, it is in fact deadly serious. When you visit the home of a source of magic, whilst you may enter if invited, never accept food or drink as this gives power and control over you, unless a disclaimer is given.”
I sat back and thought for a moment, reviewing all I had seen and heard today. Sherlock gave me the time and just watched with amusement as I struggled to assimilate what I had learned.
Finally I placed my hands on the arms of the chair and smiled.
“So, our suicide, Gary Bates, killed Mama Thames’ boy in the eighties. I presume Mama Thames stored the body and awaited the time for justice. I assume justice had to wait until Gary returned to London.” Sherlock smiled and nodded. “When the time was right she invited the murderer for tea and biscuits which he foolishly accepted giving her power over him. He then went back to his flat, which had been staged, and under the suggestion of Mama Thames, killed himself.”
Sherlock clapped his hands with glee “Well deduced.”
I basked in the complement for a moment and sipped my tea.
“So, how did you know Mama Thames was involved?”
“Ahh, yes. You recall the scent of river in the cab and then again at the scene.”
“Yes.” I obviously looked confused.
“I believe The Folly call it vestigium. You see, use of magic leaves traces, sometimes a feeling and sometimes a scent. Those who are magically sensitive can detect this. When I smelt the River whilst we were in the cab I knew one of the Rivers was involved, especially as Mama Thames was standing on the bridge as we began to cross. Therefore a consult with The Folly was the only thing to do, for damage limitation if nothing else. “
“Ahh. I understand. And, the fact that you are sensitive to vestigium?”
Sherlock smirked. “Good lord no. Neither Mycroft nor I possess any skills in that area. However that does not prevent the knowledge of it. As you can imagine a certain cultivated sensitivity is useful for The Work. I understand the basics of that world, enough to stay out of trouble and to call on help when I need it.”
“And the blessing?”
“Yes, Mama Thames is a great lady. She understands what I, no, what we do for London and she appreciates our help. A blessing from Mama Thames is a huge honour and I do not take it lightly."
“So, case closed. I take it I won’t be blogging about this.”
“No. Probably for the best.”
“Tea?”
“Please.”
-0-0-0-
Thank you for reading. I hope you found my ramblings entertaining. Comments, etc are hugely appreciated.
I can be found on tumblr, archive of our own, and fanfiction if the meed takes you.
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Date: 2014-03-08 10:12 am (UTC)